


...And Other Synonyms

by stillscape



Series: tumblr prompts collection [5]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Jughead Jones and his many thoughts, a small liberty was taken with a line of dialogue, about many things, but mostly Betty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 15:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13954686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillscape/pseuds/stillscape
Summary: But then…. then there are the sweaters.He would be lying if he said he didn’t think about the sweaters, and what’s underneath them. He would be lying if he said he didn’t think about that a lot, or if not alot, then at least more than he should.Or: There's a joke to be made in the juxtaposition of "Jughead" and "jugs."





	...And Other Synonyms

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I saw [this post](https://raptorlily.tumblr.com/post/171797346085/so-we-agree-collectively-that-jug-is-a-boob-guy) this morning, and then I don't even know. No one told me to stop, though.

Reggie Mantle has made the crack, because of course Reggie Mantle has made the crack. Reggie Mantle is _just_ intelligent enough to notice the similarities between a stupid nickname and a rather crass euphemism for a female secondary sexual characteristic.

 

It’s the _whole_ package, Jughead tells himself. The whole person. Every time Reggie makes the stupid crack (which, granted, happens only twice before Archie’s quiet “Dude” seems to silence him on the subject). Every time he fails to get out of gym class and has to listen to locker room gossip about this girl’s legs or that other girl’s ass, Jughead scowls at his hands, or his shoes, or sometimes even directly at the offending asshole parties, certain in his conviction that _he_ would never think of anyone so reductively.  

 

And he wouldn’t. He doesn’t. He falls inexorably for the whole of Betty Cooper. He falls for the way her eyes sparkle under the neon lights of Pop’s, for the little _swish_ of her ponytail when she’s deep in thought and tilts her head just right (and, more than that, for the thoughts themselves), for the way she squares her shoulders and charges forward no matter how difficult the circumstances. He falls for the inexplicably hopeful tone her voice takes on when she asks him to join the Blue  & Gold.

 

(Okay, fine. He was already deep in a hole by that point, with no chance of climbing out even if he’d wanted to.

 

He didn’t want to.)

 

Which is not to say that he hasn’t noticed Betty’s long, lean legs or that particular curve between her waist and hips, the one that sometimes makes his palms itch. He has definitely noticed those things. Sometimes he wonders if he’s the only one who _has_ noticed them. Sometimes he wonders if Betty has even noticed them. Unlike most of the girls at Riverdale High, she doesn’t seem to either need or want to go to the effort of calling attention to any particular part of her body.

 

(He falls a little bit for that, too—for what seems to him like a quiet, easy kind of perception of herself, and for the way she never seems to be trying too hard.)

 

But then…. then there are the sweaters.

 

He would be lying if he said he didn’t think about the sweaters, and what’s underneath them. He would be lying if he said he didn’t think about that a lot, or if not a _lot_ , then at least more than he should.

 

(Because he shouldn’t at all. It’s not as though he’s ever going to touch them.)

 

He would be lying if he didn’t hate Reggie Mantle just a little bit more than he already did, just because for once in his life, Reggie is _right_.

 

 

 

 

 

Anyway, it’s not as though Betty’s breasts are _it_. He likes the mind-numbingly soft little strip of skin between her neck and her shoulder a whole hell of a lot. He likes her fingers when they fly over a keyboard and when they tangle themselves in his hair. He likes her lips, whether they’re pressed together in concentration or curled in a smile, and most especially when they press into his.

 

Her breasts aren’t _it_ , not at all.

 

He just likes them a lot.

 

 

 

 

Betty once told Jughead’s father that he’s always a gentleman—and he tries to be, right up until he slams her against the kitchen cabinet and she pulls her shirt overhead and breathes the word “yes” and what’s underneath the sweaters is suddenly _there_.

 

All bets would be off after that, if not for the interruption.  

 

 

 

 

The parade of conservative sweaters continues, first with him and then without him, until the weather turns unexpectedly balmy. Jughead continues to sweat inside his black leather jacket. Betty has other, better ideas.

 

She wears overalls to the garage and they’re adorable.

 

She wears a thin-strapped camisole top to the street race. In the moment, he’s too preoccupied to wonder what magic, if any, is underneath that white cotton; later, when his brain finally reduces its RPMs to a more manageable level, he sacks out on the couch in the trailer, thinks about dipping two fingers into the neckline, and hates himself just a little for it.

 

She wears his t-shirt. It’s baggy enough to make her mostly shapeless, which paradoxically makes him hyper-aware of exactly what her shape _is_. But their reconciliation is so new, feels so fragile, that he won’t allow himself to… explore. Betty tugs his arm around her waist, holding it firmly in place, and he leaves his hand where it is, over the shirt, with his fingers spread across the flat of her belly and between the gentle indentations of her ribcage. He lets his nose get tangled in her hair and loves all of her as hard as he can and prays to anything that might exist that this will be enough.

 

She wears a black lace bra (on stage, in front of everyone) and an expression that says she’d let him do anything he wanted, and he thinks _oh, shit, it’s not_.

 

 

 

 

“I want all of you tonight,” she says.

 

The pretty pink dress unzips easily, almost _too_ easily. He lets it fall around her hips. Then he places his hands around her waist and strokes gently with his thumbs, letting himself feel.

 

Not too much, at first. Not too far. Just over the edges of the band, from skin to lace and back again as they kiss, until Betty lets loose an impatient sort of whine and tugs her teeth ever-so-gently at his lower lip.

 

Betty’s voice is somehow soft but firm at the same time as she tells him “Jug, I want this,” not a passive _it’s okay_ but an active _do it_. When he fails to do more than drag his lips down from the hollow of her throat to her collarbone to the flat space over her heart, she makes that noise again and reaches for her own bra strap.

 

 _Oh, **hell**_ _no_ , Jughead thinks, quickly knocking her hands away.

 

The bra comes off, and it’s at that point that every last drop of blood drains out of Jughead’s brain. He doesn’t even register that he’s still fully dressed until Betty stands up and yanks him to his feet by his suspenders.

 

“This isn’t fair,” she says, quickly shimmying the rest of the way out of her dress before turning her attention to his shirt buttons.

 

He doesn’t let her get very far. Betty Cooper is in his living room wearing nothing but lacy pink panties while she tries to take his clothes off. Betty Cooper wants him as much as he wants her and he has no idea what to do next. Never before has Jughead been quite so interested in the process of trial and error.

 

Somehow, magically, there is minimal error.

 

 

 

 

The sweaters come back, and now he knows what’s underneath them.

 

 

 

 

Veronica’s jalapeño margaritas are, frankly, disgusting.

 

“Jalapeños are for nachos,” he grumbles, and is just about to launch into a tirade about tortilla chips and shredded cheese when something hits him in the back of the head—his swim trunks, which Betty has just thrown at him.

 

He looks up and sees that she’s already in her swimsuit with a towel wrapped around her waist, neon green margarita in hand.

 

In the hot tub, he drapes an arm around her shoulder and lets his fingers play over the black Lycra strap. Betty snuggles closer, the humidity adhering her skin to his, and twitches a little when his fingers drop a little lower.

 

He tries the margarita again, hoping the alcohol will cleanse him of the essence of Veronica. It’s still disgusting.

 

 

 

 

For the first nanosecond after he sees _that_ bra again, he hates it. Hates the bra itself and everything it represents.

 

(The wig is just kind of confusing.)

 

Then Betty steps closer. She comes to the edge of the bed, drapes her arms over his shoulders, and for the first time, he sees it up close.

 

It looks _so good_ on her. It looks so good on her that his tongue turns to sandpaper.

 

“If this is your idea of punishment—” he starts.

 

But a slow, knowing smile has already started to spread across Betty’s face, and those are the only words he gets out before she shoves him so hard that his back hits the mattress. She does not let him finish talking, and for once, he’s very much okay with that.

 

She _does_ let him take the bra off.

 

 

 

 

The bed squeaks again, loudly, as she snuggles closer to him. She’s minty fresh now, all traces of disgusting jalapeño margarita and hot tub chlorine and sex scrubbed away, and Jughead thinks he might like her best like this. Let everyone else see Betty in her lingerie, if that’s what she wants them to see—just so long as he’s the only one who gets to see her like _this_ , contented and relaxed, and in one of his t-shirts.

 

He slides a hand around her waist. Betty lets it rest there for a moment before linking her fingers around his wrist and tugging his hand just a few inches higher in a way that feels, somehow, experimental. Questioning. Although whether it’s him or Betty doing the questioning right now, he couldn’t say.

 

“It’s okay,” she says, which…answers the question about questions, maybe. “It feels good.”

 

“My hand there, or…?”

 

“Yeah, but…also just knowing that you like them, I guess?”

 

“Why the hell wouldn’t I?”

 

“I don’t know. It’s just nice. It’s normal.” She shifts a little, and winces when the bed emits another horrible, piercing squeak.  “Boy, you’d think the Lodges would have shelled out for quieter beds.”

 

“You would,” he agrees. “Or at least some oil.”

 

From the other side of the wall, Archie and Veronica’s bed lets loose an equally ear-splitting squeak.

 

“Jug.” She drags her fingertips slowly across his chest, back and forth; he can’t feel her touch nearly as much as he can feel her thinking. “Normal is _good_ , for us.”  

 

He thinks about it for a moment. “You’re right,” he says, finally cupping his hand all the way around her. “You’re always right.”


End file.
